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The Starlord - Chapter - 74
🕑 Added 2025-12-14 15:35:23 +0000 UTCHarry began to notice it in the silences.
Not the loud moments—arguments, confrontations, Umbridge’s syrupy voice or the whispered fear of students—but in the still spaces between them. The pauses. The breaths. The nights when he lay awake staring at the ceiling of Gryffindor common room or the chamber of Slytherin beneath Hogwarts and felt something tightening around him.
Gravity.
Not the physical kind—but the invisible pull of this world.
He had come back to Hogwarts with a singular certainty: he would leave.
This planet, this magic, these people—it had all been temporary. A means to an end. The stars were his destiny. The galaxy waited. Salazar Slytherin—Darth Bane—had not taught everything to Harry not to become another trapped wizard tangled in petty politics and school exams.
And yet…
Hermione’s panic in the courtroom.
Neville’s quiet rage when the Order was mentioned.
Even the weight of Umbridge’s existence, like a challenge begging to be answered.
Connections.
Bonds.
Chains.
Harry stood alone in the Chamber of Secrets, staring at the starship resting along the left side of the ancient hall. The torches burned softly, rune-lit flames feeding off Hogwarts itself. The air smelled of stone, metal, and old magic.
He clenched his jaw.
This is how it starts, he thought.
This is how you forget why you wanted to leave.
Last year, he had wasted time. Too many distractions. Too many fires to put out. Too many people pulling at him, consciously or not. The starship had sat dormant for months—repaired externally, yes, but incomplete. Powerless.
A ship without fuel was nothing more than a tomb.
Harry walked closer, placing his hand against the cold metal hull. He closed his eyes, reaching out with the Force—not to feel people, not emotions—but systems. Structure. Flow. Energy.
“I’m losing focus,” he said quietly.
Dobby appeared instantly beside him, eyes wide and alert.
“Master Harry is not losing,” Dobby said firmly. “Master Harry is only… delayed.”
Harry looked down at him. “Delay becomes stagnation.”
Dobby shook his head fiercely. “No. Dobby sees it. Master Harry is pulled because Master Harry matters. But stars are still there. They always wait.”
That… surprised him.
Harry exhaled slowly. “I was supposed to be gone by now.”
Dobby tilted his head. “Stars do not leave just because someone looks away. They wait until you are ready to burn again.”
Harry gave a humorless smile. “You’ve been listening too closely to the holocron.”
Dobby’s ears twitched. “Master Slytherin says attachment is weakness only if it controls you. But purpose can sharpen attachment into a blade.”
Harry turned back to the ship.
Fuel.
That was the true obstacle. Not exams. Not Umbridge. Not the Ministry. Magic could heal, destroy, transfigure—but it burned. It consumed. Starships required sustained output, stability, conversion.
Raw magic was too volatile. Potions lacked scale. Runes lacked adaptability.
He needed something else.
Something that could bridge magic and physics.
Something that belonged between worlds.
“I don’t need OWLs,” Harry said aloud. “I don’t need their approval. I don’t need their future.”
He turned sharply, eyes burning with renewed resolve.
“I need propulsion.”
Dobby’s face lit up with fierce joy. “Then Master Harry works. Dobby will assist. Winky will assist. We will not sleep if we must not.”
Harry nodded.
That night became the first of many.
Every day after classes, Harry vanished into the Chamber. Not hiding—withdrawing. The world above grew distant, muffled. Books replaced lessons. Ancient schematics replaced homework. Alchemical formulas, runic matrices, Force-based energy loops—all spread across the stone floor in precise, obsessive order.
Harry didn’t attend Umbridge’s detentions.
Didn’t argue with students.
Didn’t care about rumors.
He worked.
And for the first time in months, he felt it again.
That burning clarity.
That hunger.
That pull toward the void between stars.
Harry entered the Headmaster’s office without a trace of hesitation.
The circular chamber was exactly as he remembered it—quiet, ancient, layered with magic that watched more than it spoke. Silver instruments clicked and whirred softly on their shelves, pretending indifference. Fawkes regarded him from his golden perch, eyes sharp and unblinking.
Professor McGonagall stood near the window, arms folded tightly, her expression strained between duty and concern.
Dolores Umbridge sat stiffly in a cushioned chair, wrapped in her nauseating shade of pink, lips curled into a tight, expectant smile.
And beside her—already frowning, already annoyed—sat Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.
Albus Dumbledore rose from behind his desk, his blue eyes kind but piercing.
“Harry,” he said warmly, “thank you for coming.”
Harry inclined his head. “Headmaster.”
He did not acknowledge Umbridge.
McGonagall cleared her throat. “Mr. Potter, you were summoned due to repeated complaints filed by Professor Umbridge.”
Umbridge leaned forward immediately.
“Repeated acts of defiance, Professor McGonagall,” she corrected sweetly. “Mr. Potter has ignored multiple detentions. He has shown blatant disrespect to a Ministry-appointed professor.”
Harry turned his gaze to her at last.
“Respect,” he said calmly, “is not automatic. It is earned.”
Umbridge’s smile cracked.
“How dare you—”
“Dolores,” Dumbledore said gently. “Please.”
Cornelius Fudge sighed heavily and leaned forward.
“Mr. Potter,” he said, attempting a measured tone, “regardless of recent… political complications, you are a student at Hogwarts. You are expected to obey its professors.”
Harry nodded once.
“I do. When they are qualified.”
The temperature in the room dropped.
“I do not recognize Professor Umbridge as a legitimate instructor,” Harry continued evenly. “Especially not in a core subject.”
Umbridge went scarlet.
“This is insubordination!”
Harry reached into his coat without haste and removed two neatly folded parchments. He placed them on Dumbledore’s desk.
“Allow me.”
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles and glanced down.
Harry tapped the first parchment.
“These are Dolores Umbridge’s O.W.L. results.”
McGonagall stiffened as she read.
“Barely passed,” Harry continued. “No Outstanding. No Exceeds Expectations in Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
Umbridge’s hands trembled.
Harry placed the second parchment down.
“And these are her N.E.W.T. records.”
Silence stretched.
“She did not take Defense Against the Dark Arts at N.E.W.T. level,” Harry said quietly. “Meaning she lacks the minimum certification in the subject she is teaching.”
Cornelius Fudge shifted uncomfortably.
“That is… not unheard of—”
“At Hogwarts,” Harry cut in, his voice calm but lethal, “it should be.”
He turned fully toward Fudge.
“I am a foreign student, Minister. I pay heavy tuition. I did not come here to be taught theory by someone who never mastered the subject herself.”
Umbridge’s voice shrilled.
“You will attend my classes!”
“No,” Harry said simply. “I will not.”
The word landed like a blade.
Dumbledore watched him closely now.
Harry’s eyes flicked back to Umbridge.
“I do not consider you a professor. Therefore, I do not attend your detentions. Or your classes.”
Umbridge looked to Fudge, desperate.
“Minister, this is outrageous—he must be punished!”
Harry turned to Dumbledore.
“The Ministry already forced me give up my citizenship,” he said evenly. “They endured public backlash for it. Now tell me—are they planning to interfere with my education as well? To force me out of Hogwarts?”
That shut Fudge up instantly.
Dumbledore folded his hands.
“Harry… Hogwarts is not eager for another scandal.”
Harry met his gaze.
“Then perhaps the Ministry should stop creating them.”
Umbridge sat rigid, furious, powerless.
McGonagall’s jaw was tight, but there was something like approval in her eyes.
Dumbledore finally spoke, carefully.
“Harry, I will… review the matter.”
Harry inclined his head again.
“Please do.”
He turned toward the door.
“Oh—and Headmaster?” he added calmly.
“I am here to study magic. Not Ministry propaganda.”
And with that, Harry Potter left the Headmaster’s office—leaving behind a Minister rattled, a professor exposed, and a school quietly shifting beneath their feet.
Harry stopped attending Dolores Umbridge’s classes entirely.
He did not announce it. He did not argue about it. He simply… ceased. When Defense Against the Dark Arts appeared on his timetable, Harry went elsewhere—usually to the library, sometimes to a quiet classroom, sometimes down into the Chamber of Secrets when he could manage it. The time was better spent studying subjects that actually mattered.
Advanced ward theory.
Ritual counterstructures.
Magical energy conversion.
Umbridge was irrelevant.
At least, that was what Harry thought.
It turned out Dolores Umbridge was not the type of woman to accept irrelevance.
Within a week, notices appeared across Hogwarts, stamped in Ministry pink and adorned with excessive flourishes.
By Order of the Ministry of Magic:
Dolores Jane Umbridge is hereby appointed High Inquisitor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
No one seemed entirely sure what High Inquisitor meant.
Umbridge, however, was very sure.
The next morning, she appeared in Transfiguration.
Harry noticed the sudden silence before he noticed her.
McGonagall was halfway through explaining advanced transformation limits when a familiar cough—sharp, affected, deliberate—cut through the air.
“Ahem.”
Dolores Umbridge sat on a chair at the back of the classroom, clipboard in hand, pink cardigan immaculate, smile sharp enough to cut glass.
Professor McGonagall’s mouth thinned.
“Is there something you require, Dolores?” she asked coolly.
“Oh no, Minerva,” Umbridge replied sweetly. “Do carry on. I’m simply here to… observe.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded.
So this is her plan.
Umbridge scribbled furiously as McGonagall spoke, occasionally tutting under her breath. At one point, she raised a hand.
“Yes, Professor?” McGonagall asked tightly.
“Is it truly necessary to encourage such… advanced spellwork at this level?” Umbridge asked. “Theory is quite sufficient, don’t you think?”
McGonagall’s eyes flashed.
“No,” she said crisply. “I do not.”
The class resumed, tension crackling like static.
Harry almost smiled.
By the end of the week, Umbridge was everywhere.
Potions.
Charms.
Transfiguration.
Even Herbology.
She sat at the back, took notes, interrupted at will, and smiled the entire time.
Harry noticed something else too.
She wasn’t looking at him anymore.
Not once.
It was as if he had ceased to exist.
Which suited Harry just fine.
In Potions, Umbridge lasted less than ten minutes before interfering.
“Professor Snape,” she said brightly, “do you really think such… aggressive instruction is appropriate for children?”
Snape didn’t even look at her.
“Yes,” he drawled. “If they survive, they learn.”
Umbridge’s smile twitched.
Harry watched with mild amusement as Snape docked points from Slytherin purely to contradict her suggestion—and then deducted points from Gryffindor as well, out of habit.
Umbridge scribbled furiously.
In Charms, Professor Flitwick politely ignored her suggestions entirely.
In Transfiguration, McGonagall shut her down with surgical precision.
And then came History of Magic.
Harry almost didn’t believe it when Umbridge swept into the classroom, clipboard ready, smile plastered on.
Professor Binns drifted through the blackboard as usual, entirely unaware of the living world.
Umbridge raised her hand.
“Ahem.”
Nothing.
“AHEM.”
Professor Binns continued lecturing about the Goblin Rebellions of the fifteenth century.
Umbridge stood up.
“Professor Binns, I must object to your outdated curriculum—”
Nothing.
She waved her clipboard.
No response.
The class stared in stunned silence.
Harry rested his chin on his hand, thoroughly entertained.
Umbridge tried again.
“Professor—”
Binns floated serenely onward, entirely oblivious to her existence.
For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Dolores Umbridge looked… irrelevant.
The stories spread through Hogwarts like whispers carried by draughts in the corridors.
Harry heard most of them secondhand—passed between students in low voices, muttered during meals, or exchanged in the library with sharp looks over shoulders. Dolores Umbridge was no longer content with observing. She had begun removing.
The first victim was Professor Trelawney.
Harry heard about it over breakfast.
“They say she was dismissed,” a Ravenclaw whispered, eyes wide. “Right in the classroom.”
“With Ministry authority,” another added. “Dragged her out in tears.”
Harry paused mid-sip of pumpkin juice, unimpressed.
“So she finally got rid of the fraud,” he muttered.
Hermione shot him a sharp look. “Harry—”
“What?” he said calmly. “You know it’s true. She predicts doom for a living and misses nine times out of ten.”
“That’s not the point,” Hermione snapped. “Umbridge doesn’t get to decide who stays and who goes.”
As it turned out, she hadn’t decided anything at all.
By lunch, the full story emerged.
Professor Trelawney had been dismissed—yes—but she had not left Hogwarts.
Dumbledore had stepped in personally.
He had granted her asylum within the castle.
Harry learned this standing near the staircase when he saw Trelawney sweeping past, clutching her shawls dramatically, muttering about betrayal and mistreatment—yet unmistakably still inside Hogwarts.
Harry frowned.
That… didn’t make sense.
“She’s still here?” he asked Neville later.
Neville nodded. “Dumbledore said she has nowhere else to go.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Why protect her?
Even a fraud served a purpose, apparently.
Umbridge, predictably, was furious.
And that fury found its voice in parchment.
Notices began appearing on the walls—pink-bordered, stamped with Ministry seals, written in syrupy, suffocating language.
Educational Decree No. 23:
All student organizations, clubs, and teams are hereby disbanded unless approved by the High Inquisitor.
Educational Decree No. 24:
Any gathering of three or more students requires Ministry authorization.
Educational Decree No. 25:
Quidditch practices are suspended until further notice.
By the end of the week, the wall near the Great Hall looked less like stone and more like a grotesque shrine to bureaucracy.
Harry walked past it without slowing.
None of it affected him.
He didn’t play Quidditch.
Didn’t attend clubs.
Didn’t rely on study groups.
If Umbridge wanted to choke Hogwarts slowly, that was her mistake.
But Hermione stopped dead in front of the wall.
Her hands clenched into fists.
“This is insane,” she said sharply. “She’s stripping everything away.”
Neville nodded, face pale but determined. “She’s not even pretending anymore.”
“They’re afraid,” Harry replied coolly. “That’s what this is.”
Hermione rounded on him. “And you’re just going to ignore it?”
Harry met her gaze evenly. “I’m going to outlast it.”
“That’s not enough,” Hermione said. “People are scared. They’re losing everything they care about.”
Harry studied her for a long moment.
He could see it now—something burning behind her eyes.
Defiance.
Purpose.
The kind that didn’t wait for permission.
Neville swallowed. “Hermione… what are you thinking?”
Hermione took a steady breath. “If Umbridge won’t let us learn how to defend ourselves… then we’ll learn without her.”
Harry felt a flicker of interest.
“Careful,” he said softly. “That path leads to consequences.”
Hermione’s voice was iron. “So does doing nothing.”
Harry watched them both.
He still didn’t care about Umbridge’s rules.
But he cared very much about what happened when people were pushed too far.
And Hogwarts was reaching that point.
